


and it's a miracle, that just this little thing is quite enough

by philthestone



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, also its been eight years (whatever six months) thats not like, going fast is it if they got married like pls theyve been basically married since the pilot, im sorry i keep writing angst, listen goor said amy's going undercover and I NEED THIS FOR MY HEALTH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:48:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5977389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She says, “romantic-stylze”, <em>with a z,</em> and he knows.</p><p>(And this time, there’s actually someone being left behind waiting, but it’s maybe a little less awful than it was before.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and it's a miracle, that just this little thing is quite enough

**Author's Note:**

> @GOOR AND SCHUR COME IN CLUTCH AND HAVE AMELIA PROPOSE OKAY THATS ALL I GOT enjoy this melodramatic trashcan angst xoxo
> 
> reviews are cute reunions where no one gets hurt
> 
> reviews are also nerdy cops getting married bc they love each other
> 
> reviews are good and pure, okay

She’s facing away from him when he blurts it out, her back stiff and unyielding and her arms wound around each other over her chest, hands cradling her elbows. He can see the tightness underneath the blue fabric of her suit jacket – so familiar and normal, so unlike the panic settling in his chest. He was okay, he thinks. Up until this morning, he was fine.

He knows her ( _every detail_ ). He trusts her ( _with his life_ ). He can handle this, because that’s what he’s expected to do, what _she_ expects him to do, what he expects of himself. His eyes are betraying him, though, drinking in the little details of her posture: the glossy shine of her long hair where it tucks into its neat bun, the glint of light in the tiny sliver studs nestled against her earlobes. There’s a part of his brain – the part that lights up when he’s working cases, that scans every detail of a room or piece of evidence, that’s committing all the little Amy details displayed in front of him to memory. There’s a stain of desperation on it that Jake doesn’t want to think about, because that would mean he’s not okay anymore, and Amy’s shoulder’s would get more stiff, and his chest would cave and peal and crumble and he’s being melodramatic, so sue him.

The light in the evidence locker is as dim and artificial as it usually is. Somehow, the threadwork in Amy’s suit jacket is highlighted; his eyes are locked on a single snagged thread, maybe one inch in length and horizontal against her shoulder blade, when the words tumble out of his mouth.

 _It’s going to be fine_ and _this is exciting_ and, the most recent, the too-strained, stubborn-coloured, _why are you being so weird?_ all echo against his words, and Jake tries to stop his voice from cracking, he really does.

“Because it’s _scary_ and it’s _lonely_ and - and dangerous and - and it screws with your head! I _know,_ Amy, I – it’s – ” 

His voice is catching and he’s not okay, he thinks, which is dumb and he’s dumb and this whole thing is dumb because if there’s one thing he knows without a doubt, it is just how important this whole operation is to her – to the whole squad. They’ve been working on this for weeks, Jake thinks. He needs to pull it together.

Amy turns around, and now his traitorous eyes trace over the slopes and curves of her face, her cheeks, her eyebrows and the bridge of her nose, the way her soft lips are tight around the edges and turned down. Jake thinks, _I love you_ , and tries to take a deep breath.

“Jake,” she says softly. Some of the brittle defensiveness, borne of years of fighting to prove herself, that held up her earlier annoyance has bled out.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and looks down at his feet. It’s harder than Jake cares to admit, tearing his eyes away, and he stares at his shoes and sees the details of her face, its exact expression, imprinted against his retinas.

He feels her in his space before she touches him. Her small hands, rough and gun-calloused as his own, sneak in between his fingers. They don’t come up to cup his face as they usually do, but stay linked against his palm as she leans forward and lets her forehead rest against his. Jake feels his eyes flick up to meet hers, face already angled downwards. His exhale is tight and lacking energy, almost empty.

It’s not okay, Jake thinks, but he’s managed _not okay_ before.

And then Amy’s fingers squeeze his, so tightly and suddenly that he almost starts, and she says,

“Marry me.”

The words flutter on air and brush against his lips; the evidence lockup is suddenly shrinkwrapped in silence, and Jake feels the air return to his chest with such force that he almost sways on the spot.

Amy’s hands are still clasped around his own. He thinks the blood flow to his fingers may have stopped entirely, but he’s okay with not having any fingers, because Amy’s eyes are huge and liquid in the bad electric lighting and Jake’s legs have gone all cold.

“When I come back,” she says. A beat, and he watches her swallow, watches her eyes flick down, before they come back and meet his. He’s known her for eight years, and Amy Santiago’s eyes are warm and full and unafraid, barely a flutter of uncertainty in their shine when she takes a breath and adds, “Romantic-stylze.”

He eyes are unafraid but her voice breaks. It feels like they’re detached from reality, almost: like they’re exiting in another little world and the people two floors above them don’t exist, like you can actually see the floor of Jake’s apartment most days and Amy knows how to cook more than cold cereal and microwaved leftover takeout and they both care about their jobs just a little bit less. Like Jake didn’t catch Terry’s pained expression when he saw Jake follow Amy down the stairs, like he doesn’t know how many hours Rosa has spent overtime putting together their evidence whiteboard, like he doesn’t know how much pressure Captain Holt is from the Commissioner’s Office to make this case. 

He keeps seeing little details about her face, every expression she’s capable of making with her lips and eyes and tiny nose. For the first time in a while, he can suddenly recall in Technicolour the exact grimace, the perfect downturn of her lips that she wore on the first case they worked together. It was cute, he remembers thinking. 

It was cute, and that was eight years ago, and he’s been in love with Amy Santiago for a little less than that, but.

( _But_.)

Jake’s lungs start to work again.

“When I was gone,” he hears his voice say, “I kept. I kept telling myself, that I was glad. That you weren’t waiting for – for me.”

Amy’s inhale is sharp. Jake watches her close her eyes. His own eyes are stinging, but only because he’s incapable of not looking at her, right now, of not tracing the tan skin of her cheekbone and the shadows her eyelashes make when they flutter. 

“It’s not the same thing.”

“I know.”

“It’s just – I only –”

Her eyes are open again and have grown two sizes, Jake thinks suddenly. The shortness of breath on the horizon is almost palpable; because there’s a wall, Jake knows (has seen in action before), that means everything is under control – and she may be unafraid and so, so honest, but Jake just knocked down half of that wall with his stumbling, inarticulate words.

“You’re gonna save America,” says Jake, before the wall can crumble into dust. His heart is full and heavy and filling his chest, the underlying ache only strong enough to make his voice a little hoarse. “How cool is that? Like, so cool. Amy. That’s so cool.”

“Mmhmm,” she says, lips tight and drawn and eyebrows creasing abruptly, and presses her face against his chest. He can still see her features in front of him, her teeth-torn lips and big eyes with the eyeliner smudged slightly at the corners, old and worn at the end of a long day. Her hair smells like pears and cinnamon and Jake’s hands feel cold and numb where they’re no longer being held in hers, but he reaches around her shoulders and hugs her fiercely.

“I mean,” says Jake, and it’s okay that his voice is a little funny, because that’s allowed, “I saved America first. But I bet you’ll be twice as good at it as I was.”

“You’re dumb,” says Amy into his chest.

“I love you,” says Jake into her hair.

“I’m sor –”

“Hey,” says Jake, and thinks, _I’ve done not-okay before_. “I’m marrying the savior of America. There is no way you’re allowed to be sorry right now.”

Amy says, “I love you too,” and Jake looks at the stacks of old files in front of him and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> listen i totally have no idea how dangerous or lengthy amy's undercover work will be but like
> 
> pls
> 
> this should happen
> 
> I forgot to mention btw titles from Hamilton heck yeah


End file.
